


Beast in Repose

by WormwoodandAsphodel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Actual Hell, Alternate Universe - Hell, Implied MorMor, M/M, One-sided Johnlock, Past Relationships, Pretty Convoluted, Romance, Sheriarty - Freeform, jimlock, mentions of blood/violence, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-21
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-14 02:05:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2173938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WormwoodandAsphodel/pseuds/WormwoodandAsphodel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon waking up, wounded and on the brink of death, Sherlock finds out his world has been turned upside down. It's no comfort to know he isn't alone, not when the man staring back at him is Jim Moriarty.  </p><p>Eventual Sheriarty with a touch of unrequited johnlock</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! I see you've found your way to this story of mine. I hope you enjoy your stay. I can't say with any certainty that this will be updated frequently, but I assure you I will work hard to make each chapter worth your wait! This first bit is on the short side, a prologue of sorts, if you will. Future chapters will (mostly) be longer. Enjoy, and don't forget to comment!

His eyelids were pressed together, sightless without dreaming. His head throbbed like a ringing gong, and he felt fuzzy and slow. Little pinpricks of cold left trails of numbness down Sherlock's spine, crawling from the bridge of his nose to the soles of his feet, through his fingertips and into the deepest part of his mind. His knees buckled beneath his weight, suddenly so heavy. His arms were useless, hanging by his sides. Lethargic and deadened. His mouth fell open, but no sound was released from his leaden tongue. If his mind had before been brilliant to the extent of miraculousness, the psyche of a true genius, it was now an empty husk, a hollow shell, worthless.

 

As he fell, and he knew he was falling, there was nothing to save him, no rope to cling to, no fragment of desperate faith to keep him afloat. The darkness around him deepened, pulling him down and under. It was billowy and cold, like falling unexpectedly into water, too deep, and too far from the shore. It was thick like tar, suffocating and black. He was drowning, caught in the toothless jaws of death, always thirsty. He longed to fight, but it was pointless.

 

Pitiful that he should go out like this. A stupid mistake, really, but he had not time for regrets. He couldn't breathe. His lungs were stiff, frozen in time, both too short and too long, an eternal blink of an unseen eye. He fell, in the most literal sense of the word. Body suspended in air, bracing itself for brutal impact, for the splintering of bones, for the rapidly cooling blood trickling wetly from the broken skin, for the fireworks of pain exploding over every inch until death conquered in the fight over his body.

 

He also fell in a metaphorical way, worse by far and equally destructive. He had failed. And the cost had been his life. A risky gamble, yes, but he had genuinely thought he had the upper hand. He had been wrong, and it was too late. To late, he realized he was perfectly fallible, that his flaw had been fatal. It didn't matter now. As the smoke of blackness deepened, Sherlock's thoughts slowed to an unintelligible blur, blending with the inky haze and stilling finally, the last note of masterful symphony, simultaneously harmonious and cacophonous, pleasing and loud, becoming silent as his body collided heavily with the floor, devoid of breath, of sight. Of life.

 

 

He was cold. That was the first thing he realized. Cold to the point of shivering, shaking in a desperate attempt to keep his body from sinking into hypothermia. And he was wet. His cloths clung to his body like burrs, damp and sticky. Then he felt pain. Excruciating, flowing in waves from his toes, up his legs, through his abdomen, and concentrating itself around his eye sockets, beating in time with the steady thumping of his heart, thin and shallow, but enduring. Pain was a sign of life. He knew that. But he also knew that he had fallen on smooth, polished wooden floors. And now, he was not on a wooden floor. He didn't seem to be inside at all. He felt grass beneath his fingertips, dry and dead. A root dug unbearably into his side, sending lightning up his back.

 

It was only with great struggle that Sherlock Holmes pried his eyes open. His breath hitched as his mind registered the eyes in front of him, black as nutshells and just as dark. A mix of emotions flowed through them, changing swiftly, like the tide. Hunger. Surprise. A strange mix of hatred and delight, all at once, both familiar and alarming.

 

A grin spread upon the face in front of him, wicked and grand, and a swift tongue darted out to flick, snakelike, over thin lips. Pointed teeth poked out from the smirking mouth, terrifying, and equally frightening in the minute comfort they brought.

 

Sherlock grunted, attempting to sit up. A torrent of pain swept over him, and his body convulsed. He quickly leaned forward, retching dryly, panting as pain overtook his body and clouded his mind.

 

When his fit was over, a cool hand pushed him back down, gentle and threatening.

 

"Shh," Jim soothed, still with a saccharine smile at his mouth. "You need rest, love," he said softly, a quiver of something other than honest caring in his voice. His fingers lightly brushed Sherlock's eyelids, the touch tender and soft as he pushed them closed. "I won't hurt you," he promised, Irish voice far more comforting than it should have been.

 

Sherlock's eyes snapped back open. "How do I know you won't?" Sherlock spat, ignoring the pain of his broken body to sit up in defiance. His eyes gleamed with hatred and mistrust, dulled by pain, and his lips were pulled back in a menacing snarl. His body protested, but he would not be weak, not here, not now.

 

Unexpectedly, Moriarty's face grew serious, but the teasing lightness remained in his eyes. He leaned in close to Sherlock, closer than Sherlock was comfortable with, and his breath was hot and sticky on his face, no more than a whisper.

 

"Because you're already dead."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is dead. That makes a bit of sense. But why is Moriarty so keen on taking care of him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight injury warning on this one. If you're sensitive to blood or pain, I recommend you proceed with a bit of caution. Nothing tremendously graphic.

In a machine switch flip, Sherlock's mind whirled to life. His eyes flicked rapidly, nearing on violently, scanning, analyzing, and storing information.

 

Trees grew in gnarled, twisted clumps, thin and unhealthy. Limbs grew at awkward angles, like they had been broken and reformed, and something vile oozed from the bulging, deformed trunks, split and cracking and sporting ugly patches of ghastly glowing fungus.

 

It was dim, but the darkness was not absolute. It was a sort of eerie twilight, a midpoint between light and true darkness. Enough to see, but Sherlock's eyes still began to ache, and he blinked rapidly, trying to adjust. Nothing changed.

 

He knew he was in a forest of some sort, that much was apparent, but he didn't know exactly why.

 

He took a deep, steadying breath and gaged so hard he nearly began retching again. The place smelled of death. Decomposing bodies and stagnant water. Boggy and thick, metallic like sulfur. It clung to Sherlock's nose and tongue and he swallowed forcefully as bile threatened to spill up and over.

 

Sherlock remembered that he was damp, and his skin felt filthy, mucked up with his own blood and sweat and clogging his pores. His hair was greasy and slick, clinging to the back of his neck like slime, itchy and gross. He looked down. The ground was torn and ragged, clumps of mangled, dead grass and thorns soaked to a brilliant red with his own blood. It was warm, but cooling rapidly, smelling sweet and rich, like copper. It made his head dizzy and his vision swam. He felt weak and feeble, like a newborn kitten.

 

It was cold. Sherlock himself was freezing, and he knew it was from being low on blood, as well as being soaked in it, but the air itself was chilling. Not enough to kill, but enough to feel. A slow, maddening torture.

 

Far away, farther than the realms of sight would allow, disregarding the imperfect light, a horrible shriek rang out, deafening even at the distance, filled with so much pain, Sherlock's toes curled and he squeezed his eyes shut. It was the sound of ultimate suffering, pure agony and torment, and Sherlock nearly keeled over.

 

With a sudden clarity, Sherlock realized where he was.

 

"We're in hell," he said quietly, more to himself, but Jim's eyes lit up in bright confirmation.

 

"Good, good," he cooed, "You've gotten that," his voice was mocking, song-like and lilting.

 

Sherlock stood on his feet, body lurching dangerously. His head was swimming, dizzy and dark. He ground his teeth together hard, trying to keep a grip on something tangible. His ribs shook with each rattling breath, and his neck stung fiercely. His ankles felt broken and bruised, and his wrists were swollen and they hurt.

 

"If I'm already dead, then you can't kill me," Sherlock boasted through clenched teeth, voice muffled and laced with pain.

 

"You're wrong!" Jim sang, clasping his hands together and sounding exceptionally pleased that he was a step ahead in this power struggle. "You _can_ die. And I _can_ kill you," he assured, leaning forward, eyes glittering in mirth. "But I won't. Not yet anyway, that would be _too easy_ ," he pouted, a mockery. "I will kill you, Sherlock. And when I do, it will be so satisfying," he shivered slightly, "like lancing a festering wound and watching the poison drain away." He was clearly pleased, practically purring as he gave his little speech.

 

Sherlock stumbled a bit, dangerously low on blood, close to going into shock. He leaned against a ragged tree, needing something to support him and hating himself for that weakness. He surged forward, still gripping the soggy, gritty surface of the trunk, but attempting to be as intimidating as possible.

 

"But that means that I can kill you just as easily," he bluffed, ending embarrassingly in a fit of coughing. He doubled over as blood dripped from his lips, salty and tangy on his tongue.

 

"You won't be killing anyone in that state, _my dear_ ," Jim ground out, stepping closer to Sherlock. "Except maybe yourself." He reached out a hand to Sherlock's shoulder, a genuine gesture.

 

Sherlock swatted his hand away with as much pitiful strength as he could muster. " _Don't touch me!_ " He warned, eyes severe and voice a vicious, albeit failing, growl.

 

"Sherlock, if you don't let me help you, you will die," Jim said in earnest, putting both palms out to show his lack of ill will. When Sherlock didn't attempt to fight again, he put his arm around Sherlock's shoulders, staggering as the taller man's full weight was suddenly on him. He gently set him down on a clear patch of earth, guiding Sherlock's head with his hand as he helped him lay down.

 

"Why would you care if I died?" Sherlock asked between labored breaths, rapidly loosing strength and blood.

 

Jim was not a doctor, and for as much as he hated John, truly hated the man, wanted to see his brains leaking from his skull, or splattered on the wall, he wished he had at least a scrap of his medicinal knowledge. That was about the only thing the gnome of a man was good for.

 

Mustering up his limited knowledge of this type of thing, he fumbled around, unbuttoning Sherlock's top. Sherlock moaned, in complaint or simple pain, Jim didn't know, and he frankly didn't care.

 

When the shirt was removed, it was so covered in blood, Jim wasn't sure of its original color. Tossing the sticky fabric aside, Jim's sable eyes raked Sherlock's bare chest and shoulders for injury.

 

His ribs were rosy and pink, splashes of purple blossoming across the skin. Most of his ribs were broken or cracked, and he was coughing blood. Jim worried that his lungs had been punctured.

 

"You should have listened to me," he said lowly, a reprimand. His voice was soft, gentle enough for the occasion, yet firmly scolding. His finger traced up one dark rib, lightly. Sherlock managed a weak whimper. Even that featherlight touch caused him pain. "I told you to rest. Standing up made your injuries bleed more," he hissed, angry and, he loathed to admit, scared. "You are a fool, Holmes."

 

Jim looked to Sherlock's arms, breath faltering as he saw the gleam of bone, white as pearl, stained with his scarlet blood. Jim himself was nearly sick at the sight, and he closed his eyes momentarily as a wave of nausea flowed through him. Never had he imagined himself doing this, least of all to Sherlock Holmes, but with a final, determined effort, he reached out with trembling hands, feeling the bone, sharp and slippery, and leaned his weight forward to push the bone back into place with a shuddering scraping sound.

 

The howl of pain from Sherlock was unearthly, and Jim heaved a bit when it was all over. His hands were now cloying and bloody, and he wiped them desperately on his trousers. He grabbed the discarded shirt and tore a sleeve from it, wrapping it around the open wound and hoping that he was doing the right thing.

 

Next, he stripped Sherlock of his trousers, pants coming along with them. Sherlock didn't protest, but by now his eyes were closed, and his chest rose shallowly, and he may have been too weak to do so.

 

Something was wrong with Sherlock's right thigh, that much was obvious. Blood trickled steadily from the wound, and Jim wondered why it hadn't formed a clot yet. His mind supplied him with the knowledge that severed femoral arteries often cause a person to bleed out, and therefore wouldn't clot, but he banished that thought from his mind. Sherlock would not die, not yet.

 

Jim pressed one hand onto the wound, forceful and hard. It probably hurt, but if Sherlock was conscious, he gave no sign. The other hand, along with his teeth, tore another strip of fabric from Sherlock's old shirt. He tied the strip above the injury, a tourniquet of sorts, hopefully effective.

 

Sherlock's left ankle was twisted, Jim concluded. Not broken, but obviously damaged. He didn't think it was even sprained, but his knowledge of this subject was purposefully slim. Nevertheless, Jim wrapped up the ankle. Whether he did it right, he was uncertain, but he had to take that risk.

 

Jim, in order to be sure, needed to see Sherlock's back, but even he knew it would be stupid to move the man. Instead, he rolled up Sherlock's trousers and stuffed the bundle behind the detective's head, so his airway wasn't blocked. Then he removed his own jacket and placed it over Sherlock, providing minuscule warmth and returning a sliver of decency to the man's exposed body. As Jim's fingers brushed against his skin, it felt cold and clammy.

 

Jim, in a fit of panic, grabbed at Sherlock's good wrist, clumsily searching for a pulse. Sherlock jerked his arm away, and Jim's breath stuttered as he fought to hide his relief. He was close to Sherlock's head, hovering over him as the detective's steely eyes opened.

 

"You didn't answer my question," Sherlock said, voice so soft, Jim barely heard it.

 

"Because if you die, I will die as well," Jim answered with an honestly that was almost ominous. He crawled forward slightly. "Now go to sleep," he commanded, not giving Sherlock a choice as he punched him, hard, under the jaw.

 

The criminal settled down, as comfortably as possible in this godforsaken place, and watched, keen as a hawk, Sherlock's unconscious body. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What does Jim mean by that? Let me know what you think and leave a comment! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hell. That's what this place is. But Jim is still telling riddles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some action! Gonna shake thing up a bit. Tell me how you guys like it. I'll be delighted!

Sherlock woke with a throbbing headache, like knives pulsing through his head. He tried to breathe and wheezed. His throat was painfully dry, and he when he swallowed, he felt like his was choking on thorns. He was no longer damp, but the cold was deeper now, and he realized he was naked. Or, nearly naked. A jacket, Jim's jacket, covered his midsection, and he felt a flash of awkward gratitude that the criminal had made an effort to retain his modesty.

 

He knew he had been asleep for a while, several days, perhaps, but he had no gauge on actual time. When he opened his eyes, gritty like sand, damp like the sea, it was still as dark as it had been when he had first became aware. A hacking cough shook through Sherlock, and he leaned over, supported by his trembling arms, and spat out a sticky mouthful, green with specks of red. His right arm felt like it was on fire, and he felt warm blood trickle between his fingers. Right. It was broken.

 

Something warm pressed against Sherlock's left thigh, and he shakily turned to see Moriarty's hair, loose and sleep matted, and his oddly peaceful face, pressed against the skin. His mouth was parted gently, and he looked mostly relaxed, although something was clearly troubling him, even in slumber.

 

The effort of sitting up, as small as it was, was taking a toll on Sherlock, and he panted, chest heaving as he fought for breath. He noticed, with mild panic, that he was shaking.

 

With an alarming suddenness, Sherlock realized he was hot. His face was flushed with heat, and he felt like clawing his skin off. The back of his neck singed him, and his back was moist, sweaty and sleek. With his fever-addled mind, he assembled all of his symptoms.

 

"Pneumonia." Jim spoke, sitting up and palming his eyes. He lifted his arms in a luxurious stretch, a small, contented grunt escaping his thin lips. The criminal's eyes, skipping past the bleared, sleepy stage, were clear and focused, knowing and electric, meeting Sherlock's gaze with a hint of scorn, and a touch of underlying concern. "Here. Put your pants on," he said as he tossed the fabric to Sherlock. "Trousers too. I used your shirt save your life. Terribly sorry about that." Jim's voice was dry. "You've been asleep for what I would assume to be three days. Can't be certain. Time is tricky here, maybe nonexistent." Jim answered before he could ask, always eager to outpace his adversary.

 

As Sherlock dressed himself, painfully, he took in Moriarty's words, slower than he would have liked due to his condition, and he was sure he had a concussion as well.

 

"You've been in hell since you shot yourself." Although it was said as a statement, it was loaded, giving Moriarty the chance to confirm or correct. Sherlock's voice was thick and deep, rich like chocolate and knowing, penetrating. He faced the smaller, albeit stockier, man, eyes narrowed, playing the game. A smile flirted with the corner of his lips, amusement that only seemed to show up with the criminal present.

 

The laugh that was pulled from Jim's lips was hearty, ringing with mockery. He smiled in glee, calming as he crossed his legs, placing his palms easily on his knees.

 

"Oh Sherlock, you are remarkably stupid," said he, mouth still in a silly, almost fond smile. "Wittle bitty Sherlock with his big, USELESS BRAIN!" Jim's voice flared, and his eyes were twin points of flame, dancing in a dangerous display. "YOU DISAPPOINT ME!" he shouted. "You disappoint me," he repeated, quieter, though his eyes were still alight. "Did you really think I killed myself then?" he whispered, voice full of irrational excitement as he leaned closer to Sherlock.

 

Sherlock, as much as he tried not to, retreated slightly, shrinking into himself at the predatory gaze that burned his flesh. "You faked your death, as did I," Sherlock spoke boldly, with courage he was struggling to have. He was beginning to feel exhausted again, and his body still hurt, badly. "But you've been here longer than I have. You know this place fairly well, though not completely. Something else killed you, or someone, but you're not going to talk about that, and neither am I, for the same reasons," he concluded, breathless, in part from having lung trouble, and because Jim was insistent in encroaching his personal space.

 

Now the criminal was crawling forward, delight showing in his dark eyes as he situated himself, legs on either side of Sherlock's waist. He sat, weight barely touching the detective's skin, but the threat remaining. As he leaned forward, his left hand rose to curl around Sherlock's neck with gentle pressure, the other resting beside the man's head.

 

He was so close that Sherlock could feel the lightning heat crackling from his skin, taste the poison of his breath's caress on his face, sense the nails pricking at his throat, at his pulse, at the beat of his heart. He could see the lips that formed an implacable smirk, the teeth that poked out, wolfish and savage, and the eyes that shone with thirst and passion. He could smell blood and sweat, mixed with something undeniably sweeter, could feel every point of contact between them like tidal waves on his skin.

 

Sherlock's voice cut off momentarily, faltering in fear he couldn't escape as his breath caught on its way in. Then, in an incredible effort of wills, he began again, voice a soft, dirty whisper.

 

"I know what you're doing," he declared bravely, continuing when Moriarty's eyes intensified, signaling him to explain. "You don't want sex, that would be far too ordinary for you, and if you were to take part in the dull, carnal habits of the lesser minded, you would not stoop to _rape_ to fulfill you're desires," he challenged, steeling his gaze. "And you're not going to kill me. This is power, pure and simple. And although it may feel like an achievement, you're threatening a man who cannot fight back. A shallow victory, even for _you_ ," he spat, sudden anger and hatred darkening his vision.

 

He fought to free himself of the man's viselike grip. He froze, moaning in agony when Moriarty dropped his full weight on his ribs, but he refused to break their locked gaze, refused to back down or surrender. The hand on his throat tightened to the point of pain, a warning, and then the fingers scratched against his cheek. Blood, sticky and hot, flowed from the wound down his chin and into the ground. Jim's black eyes burned into Sherlock's cold ones for a long time. It was the criminal who broke the contact, lunging forward to press his lips to Sherlock's.

 

The kiss was brutal, entirely made of power, with no trace of tenderness or finer emotions. Jim bit down on Sherlock's upper lip, vicious and cruel. Sherlock's mouth remained inexorably closed, but Jim bit and fought and pried until Sherlock's lips were raw and bleeding, viscous blood mixing with saliva as it spilled from between them. His fingers pressed harshly into Sherlock's torn cheek, digging, scraping, until his mouth was forced open.

 

The criminal's tongue was slick and hot against Sherlock's own, and his eyes shut in mixed repulsion and desire, and his left hand clamped the hair at the base of his enemy's neck, fighting and struggling for the upper hand. This made Moriarty bite his tongue, teeth sharp, and warm blood flooded his senses, filling his mouth with the heady flavor of copper. His hand was ripped from the criminal's hair, dark strands woven between his freed fingers.

 

He blindly raked his nails, searching for skin, for some way to cause pain, scratching ferally over Jim's forehead, temples, and collar bones, ripping and splitting. Moriarty slapped his uninjured cheek, hard enough to make his head spin and his ears ring. He clawed the at the other man's shoulder, pushing his fingernails under the skin and causing a hiss from Jim. Searing liquid flowed under his nails, coating his fingers and making them slippery as he kicked out, trying to dislodge the man from on top of him.

 

This made Jim slam his shoulders against the rocky ground, jarring his neck and back and squeezing Sherlock's battered ribs between his thighs, causing the detective to thrash and scream, gasping as the air was snatched from his lungs.

 

With a last effort, and strength born of sheer determination, Sherlock grabbed Moriarty by the jaw, pulling their lips apart and holding him firmly, giving a threatening shake.

 

Jim raised his hands in false surrender, surprise coloring his face as his eyes widened and he frowned, playful and malevolent. His thighs remained taught, although he did not attempt to hurt Sherlock again.

 

"I could kill you right now," Sherlock whispered, raw, bloody breath wafting over Jim's smug face. His fingers clamped bruisingly against the smaller man's face, and he brought his injured right arm up to drag his fingers down the side of Jim's cheek, lingering lightly over his chin, firmer on his throat, enough to hurt, but not to draw blood. "I would have no regrets," Sherlock breathed, smiling as his eyes watched one finger dance dangerously over the criminal's carotid artery, nail scraping across the skin and staining a reddened trail. Moriarty shivered and Sherlock felt him swallow.

 

Jim's smile was primitive and toxic, and his hands lifted to cradle Sherlock's face, surprisingly gentle in the touch. His thumbs stroked the hollows beneath Sherlock's eyes, rough and smooth, like sandpaper and silk, and Sherlock unwillingly leaned into the touch. Moriarty's left hand traveled to the back of Sherlock's head, clutching the damp curls tightly.

 

"That would be a bad idea, darling," he said as he stroked Sherlock's nape rhythmically. His voice was like the wind, felt more so than heard, velvety and destructive. He grinned, sweet and mild, and placed a warm, wet kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth. It was fervent and loving, much more delicate than the previous kiss, and Jim smiled against Sherlock's soft skin. He let go of his hold on Sherlock, rolling off of him and instead lying beside him on the ground. He slung his arm around the detective and snuggled into his side, burying his face in his neck, eyelashes tickling the sensitive skin.

 

Sherlock's lips brushed Jim's wounded shoulder in a gesture of strange sentiment. It felt oddly intimate, to be lying flush against another body, warm and tender, yet he didn't move. "I wouldn't miss you," he said lowly. It wasn't a lie, not in its entirety, and the way he said it sounded like a promise, soothing almost.

 

Jim's soft hair shifted on Sherlock's chest before pulling away entirely as the criminal leaned up to face Sherlock, supported on his elbows. He blinked, his face looking serenely devoid of emotion, more innocently sleepy than fierce or sadistic.

 

"You wouldn't get a chance to," he stated calmly, gaze flickering from Sherlock's own to the man's chest, as if nervous. He hesitated before speaking again. "Our lives are connected. If one of us dies, so does the other." His eyes were wide, fawn-like as he watched Sherlock's reaction. "What I said before, you thought I was being sentimental, or clingy with my favorite toy, but nothing is ever that simple. I have to protect you, regardless of what I want."

 

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, pensive.

 

"You said you would kill me. You would die as well."

 

"I will kill you," Jim said with far too much nonchalance for the situation. "When the time is right, I will watch the blood run from your body, watch you writhe and take your last breath, and I will have no regrets." He gave a pointed look as he mimicked Sherlock's words. "And I'll be okay with dying. I wouldn't live long without you, anyway. You knew that already. But now, we both need sleep. Goodnight, Sherlock." He kissed the detective's sweet lips, threading their fingers together and closing his eyes as he laid back down.

 

Sherlock remained alert a while longer, but illness and exertion made his eyelids droop as well, and he slept, leaning into Moriarty's smaller, warmer frame.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim is two sides of one coin, a puzzle Sherlock can't quite figure out, but certainly one he wants to break apart and deduce until there is nothing left.

A cold breeze wafted to Sherlock's face, and he squinted his eyes against the abuse. His cheeks were numb and reddened, and his fingers were stiff and aching. He scrunched up his nose, feeling frozen. He was shivering uncontrollably, and hated himself for it.

Jim's breath was hot against his spine, and Sherlock flinched as the criminal poked and prodded the bruised flesh on his back.

"Are you nearly finished?" he asked, teeth clamped together, partly in cold, mostly in agitation.

"Getting there." Jim's patience was wearing thin, and even he was beginning to feel the chill.

A particularly hard nudge had Sherlock wondering if it had been intended to be spiteful, but then Jim's gentle hands went back to mapping out his skin for injuries, and it was almost soothing. When Moriarty's fingers left altogether, Sherlock was swirling in a hazy blend of relief and reluctance. Jim's hands had been warm.

"I don't see anything that's not superficial. Scrapes and contusions, nothing major," the man confirmed, turning Sherlock back to face him. He captured Sherlock's chin with two fingers, turning his head delicately to inspect the abraded flesh. Sherlock wrenched his jaw free, glaring ruefully. "Can't say the same about your face. That cut may take a while to heal, although I must say, red looks lovely on you," he said cheekily with a playful wink.

 

Sherlock stared at him, baffled. Moriarty was impossible, and Sherlock had no idea what he wanted. He wasn't even sure Jim knew. At times he was pleasant, with laughter that sounded like ringing bells, a smile that was stunning in its honesty, and a peaceful, almost content look that eased the long years from his face, making him seem boyish and charming. More often, his eyes twinkled with coalesced cruelty and mirth, his lips moved to form addicting lies and his voice shook with an intensity that was vivid and deranged, enough to captivate Sherlock and leave him with tempting fear and a hatred that was magnetic. Sherlock was trapped like the roaring, rolling, slipping tide under the placid turbulence of the moonlight, and somehow, that was exactly where he wanted to be.

Jim's jacket was a welcomed kiss of silk on Sherlock's tender, frigid skin. The warmth was a small heaven, one of which he was immensely grateful. Nestling himself between the rancid trunks of the pathetic trees of hell, Sherlock escaped most of the wind's aculeate bite. The ground was soggy, and boreal water gurgled to the surface as Sherlock slumped down.

He coughed wetly, longing for sleep and feeling weak. He wondered briefly if it would be worth it to die, to just be done with the misery of living. Jim would die too, of course. Sherlock shut his eyes, sighing through his nose.

Moriarty settled beside Sherlock. Within grasp, purposefully, knowing Sherlock would never reach for him. It was companionable, yet tension submerged them like a thick cloud of dust. Trust was an impossibility.

"What is it like in hell?" Sherlock inquired, voice a quiet rumble. "Don't tell me anything obvious. It doesn't suit you."

Jim sniggered a bit, extending his legs to be more comfortable, ignoring the cold water that sloshed up his calves.

"Changeable. It's cold now. Sometimes it's hot," he said easily, as if he had expected Sherlock's question. "Always smells bad, though." His voice had a slight sympathetic tone to it as he scrunched his nose. "I've only been as far as the forest. I can't say for certain what's beyond that, if there is anything else," he shrugged, uncaring.

Sherlock turned to Jim, opening his mouth in question, but ultimately stopping and closing it again, thoughtfully resigned look still on his face.

"You're hungry," Moriarty guessed, throwing up his hands. "I don't have anything edible on me, I'm afraid."

Sherlock gave him a measured look. "You said anything edible. Not food," he pointed out, studying the criminal's countenance.

"Technically, I guess raw, maggot meat could be food, if you were, say, a vulture," Jim said raising his eyebrow at Sherlock. He snorted blandly at Sherlock's face, paler than normal and squeamish. His repugnance was almost funny. "I'd prefer to starve." His tongue rolled over the r, dragging it out like a curse.

There was a lull in the conversation as Sherlock contemplated. He coughed again, painfully. His throat was raw and itchy, and even swallowing hurt. "You haven't been here long, that much is prominent." Distain dripped from his voice, lip curling a bit.

"Correct as always, Sherlock," Jim affirmed dispassionately, despite sounding vaguely pleased. "Although I cannot tell you exactly how long I've been here." He was staring ahead, surveying the forest with keen, bright eyes, not looking at Sherlock. "Like I said, time is tricky. Could have been a week, could have been a year."

Sherlock stared at him, incredulous and confused to the point of nearing alarm. Jim was nothing if he was not thorough. What had caused the criminal to be so... indifferent? The extreme behavioral change was almost concerning.

"Not enough time to die of inanition," Sherlock reminded, studying.

"Perhaps not," he pondered. "Although I'm not sure I would die from refusing to eat. Feel the hunger, yes, but this is hell. It's not exactly cordial." Jim's eyes were bright with mischief as he smirked astringently at Sherlock.

Sherlock's face closed off minutely, as though a storm cloud had let its aphotic shadow fall on his features.

"You're being obvious," he warned darkly. Moriarty's eyes crinkled into a genuinely amused grin. Suddenly Sherlock thought of something important.

"What was the date? When you died. You have to remember the date!" Sherlock's voice leaked urgency, the criminal's opposite in that respect. His eyes kindled with intensity that seemed to rattle from every inch of his taut body. He nearly shook with anticipation, and he had a burning, wild look, one that spoke of desire and insanity.

Jim licked his lips, always slow, always deliberate and steady, a tranquil mountain lake among Sherlock's fiery sea of impatient need.

"February 13th." He closed his eyes, physically relaxed as he spoke, shifting his shoulders to sink lower on the tree he was propped against. His chest moved in a steady cadence, breath billowing out in pale fog. To unknowing eyes, he almost appeared asleep, given away only by the smug ghost of a smirk coquetting at the seam of his mouth.

Sherlock was surprised, and it showed in his blue eyes, watching Moriarty keenly. Becoming excited, he began to speak.

"February? That was only two months ago! You've been in hell for two months." It was hardly any time at all, and yet Jim already seemed bored of the place.

A swarthy eye flicked delicately open. "I've been here long enough," came the morose reply, and the distinct threat entwined in the words caused Sherlock to fall silent.

The wind picked up, trashing through the decrepit branches above their heads and sending down drops of cold water, pattering against their already raw skin. Sherlock's broken arm began to ache fiercely, and he doubled over in pain, a small sound escaping his tongue. A cough rumbled through Sherlock like thunder until the air was pulled from his lungs and the fight to take each breath was like a war. Moriarty gave a firm whack to his back, again, and a third time. He stopped coughing and tears ran down his cheeks like little creeks and his throat tasted like blood.

Jim grabbed Sherlock by the fabric of the jacket's shoulders, pulling him to face himself. Sherlock gripped Jim's sleeves weakly, looking haunting and frail. The look of acquiescence in Sherlock's dull eyes made Jim blink and peruse the man more closely.

"It's going to be a long time before I get better, isn't it?" Sherlock remark tiredly. He looked like he had given up.

Moriarty looked at him a long moment, a slow, check-mate smirk crossing his mouth.

"Now you're being obvious."


	5. Chapter 5

The rhythm of the rain was a dull, enduring rattle. Silver flecks of water darted in front of Jim's vigilant, jaded eyes. He took a long breath. The air was cold and sharp in his nose. It was fresh from the rain as it filled his lungs, satisfyingly clean and damp. Trails of steam pirouetted from his mouth in a thick white cloud.

 

The forest was silent apart from the constant _drip, drip, drip_ of the rain, digging into Jim's head eternally, so repetitive it was maddening. And yet the trees held a certain stillness to them, vaguely calming, although dreary. Jim's wandering eyes found no movement among the trunks, nothing but the fat drops of rain falling between the branches.

 

Sherlock slept. The bare boughs of the tree gave a little protection from the rain, but a few stray drops managed to splash unpleasantly across Sherlock's nose, or down Jim's neck on occasion. Jim was cold, and he knew Sherlock was colder. But for now, the detective was peaceful, and Jim gently pushed his fingers through Sherlock's hair in simple, stroking motions. It was so soft, Jim noticed pleasantly, and he buried his fingers in the warmth. Dark tresses wrapped around his fingers like vines clinging to lattice fencing, and he absently tugged at the strands, keeping his eyes eternally on the soggy forest.

 

Sherlock's breathing strayed from a sleep-steady pattern to longer, irregular wheezes, and his head shifted in Moriarty's lap. His body stilled in wakefulness, yet he did not move. Jim pulled his hands free of Sherlock's curls, and Sherlock clambered to his feet abruptly.

 

His ankle twinged under his weight, and his vision darkened slightly at the ferocity of his action, but the dizziness it brought passed swiftly. He stood right in the rain, letting the cool water run unchallenged down his skin, until his hair was soaked and dripping. He was shivering, but it didn't matter. The drops ran from his face like tears, and his eyes were red, but as the water stripped the feeling from his skin, he felt almost happy, and less numb than before.

 

Jim rose as well, giving the trees one last wary glance before stepping out of the sparse shelter and into the storm. He faced Sherlock, rain matting his hair to his head and beading in dewy drops on his eyelashes. He felt the dried caking of blood and dirt wash away from his skin, but he felt no cleaner.

 

Without a word, Moriarty tore his eyes from Sherlock's and plodded through the muddy roots of the decaying trees. As he left, he made no attempt to look back, but Sherlock knew he was aware of the detective's gaze on his lithe form. Sherlock stayed, motionless, until Jim was far gone from sight, and he stared after the criminal for a long while. The corner of his mouth formed an addicted smile, and he followed his opponent.

 

The wind picked up through the branches overhead, wailing through the trees like a dying beast. The rain stopped, leaving behind a thin, piercing silence as it ceased its deafening patter. Snow began falling in its place, bitterly cold and buffeting against exposed skin in stinging swirls and clinging to the murky leaf litter on the forest floor.

 

Sherlock squinted his eyes and turned his head away from the worst of the wind's icy teeth, straining to see Jim's shape in the white haze. He could barely make out the lean body among the harshly tossed flakes, but he followed the quickly disappearing footprints, huddling into the small suit jacket Jim had left him. The rain water froze little clumps of ice in his hair and stiffened around the fabric at his ankles, and his ears lost feeling.

 

Before long, the dark forest was lost in a layer of white, so raw and so bleak, Sherlock felt hopeless, and very exposed. The snow cut at his naked neck and chest like tiny knives. As he walked, shin-deep snow filled his shoes, and his toes ached and his ankles burned. His hands were stiff and waxy, and precariously cold.

 

Jim stopped moving, a small, dark shape among the blinding world of white. Sherlock waded toward him, and when he was close enough, Jim turned to him, burning with the fury of a thousand suns, and eyes alive with fire and hate. His face was pale from the frost, with specks of white snow scattered through his dark hair like stars in the deep void of space, and his anger was fatal. His black eyes were hot and bright, and his frozen lips were peeled back from his teeth, like an animal about to kill. His reddened, numb hands became fists at his sides, and he took a prowling step toward the detective, forcing Sherlock to step back, like a dangerous waltz, precise and deadly.

 

"Why are you here?"

 

The words did not come out in a roar. They did not crackle with the intensity of thunder, or crash like a mighty wave in a storm tossed ocean. The question was soft as a kiss, and gentle, like a mother with a baby at her side.

 

Sherlock was afraid. It wasn't the fast-paced, heart throbbing fear of seeing his friend in Semtex, wrapped like a cruel gift on a wicked Christmas morning, nor was it the calming, last second horror of throwing himself off a high building, eyes shut as the fall played God and determined whether he lived or died. It was cold dread, complete and all-consuming. It was breath-catching terror, and Sherlock froze, feeling like a piece of flesh dangled before a hunger-maddened lion, braced to feel the teeth of revulsion clamp around his throat.

 

"Why did you follow me?" Moriarty repeated, blinking slowly. His words hissed through the air like venom and cut through Sherlock like the blade of a sharp, fearful dagger.

 

Sherlock chewed on his battered lips, teeth tearing through a thick scab. A bit of blood seeped into his mouth, and he tongued at the wound, loving the sting of it. He looked at Moriarty's wildfire eyes. It was his turn to be serene.

 

As he shivered, he managed a small grin. His wrists, left bare by the too-short sleeves of Jim's jacket, were so cold, they felt warm, and the skin stretched over his collarbones was probably frozen.

 

"You saved my life," Sherlock smirked, sliding forward with the ease and sureness of a slippery snake. "I owe it to you, regardless of what I want."

 

Jim leaned forward until his forehead bumped Sherlock's nose, hard, and his words were a sweet scarlet, like sin and blood.

 

"What makes you think you're doing me a favor?"

 

Sherlock's eyes roamed over Moriarty's too-near face, tarrying for a long moment at the criminal's lips, chapped and cold and worn in a surly grimace. Sherlock didn't speak, but his glorious, haughty simper was enough of an aggravating answer. He pulled Jim toward him, bodies clashing together with a dull thud.

 

"I don't need you to be my guard dog, Holmes," Moriarty whispered into Sherlock's neck, warm, pale breath heating the skin. Jim slipped his arms through the front of the jacket, circling Sherlock's waist. The detective's arms surrounded his shoulders, and he leaned against Sherlock's chest and shut his eyes. He was still shivering, but this was warmth, and despite the hostility between them, it was the closest to heaven the two sinners would ever get.

 

"No," Sherlock agreed, lips breathing words like fire into Moriarty's ear. "Of course not."

 

Sherlock lead Jim, still frozen in each other's arms, to a patch of icy snow that had drifted into a thick clump. The wind was a ceaseless torrent, beating against them like snarling, gnashing teeth. Precious heat and time deteriorated until the only hope of reprieve was to get out of the virulent gale and wait it through. Sherlock kicked at the mound of snow, more ice than powder, slowly chipping into its unyielding side, and Moriarty began scraping at it with his fingers, scooping and digging until a hollow big enough for both of them was finally formed.

 

Jim's hands were bloody red and senseless, and he shoved them up under his armpits, teeth clamped firmly in pain and cold. He looked unsteady, and his eyes threatened to shut at any moment. Sherlock enclosed the hollow with a wall of snow, leaving enough uncovered to lessen the chance of asphyxiation.

 

The cave was dark, yet far less cold than the clamor outside of its frosty walls, and Sherlock held Jim close. He was shaking. Sherlock was shivering too, but at that moment, the criminal seemed so small, and Sherlock cradled him tightly, willing warmth into his body. Moriarty's face was pale from the cold, and blue in the dimness, and Sherlock couldn't tell if he was breathing or not. The detective laid on his back, shifting so Jim was pressed against his chest and clasping his hands around Jim's ruined fingers, and stared at the translucent roof of the cave, breath resonating around the walls in echoes of uncertainty.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel as though I should offer an apology for this chapter. Not because it's bad quality, but because... well, you'll see. Just trust me on this and bear with me. 
> 
> On a much more positive note, this chapter is dedicated to Vicktor, for waiting so patiently even when I take so long to update.

The flat seemed quiet. Not alarmingly so, but soft, and soothing. A calm quiet. Snow was falling gently outside in beautiful, fat flakes, just enough to dust the ground and make everything wintery and white. It was unusual for an day in mid April, but not unheard of, and the tranquility was a small blessing.

 

Sherlock's mind flipped through photo-album memories of frosty Christmas mornings, the birthdays of his that it had snowed, and the one time Mycroft had built a snowman with him. It had been lopsided and one-eyed, and Mycroft had, rather loftily, declared its name to be "Polyphemus" due to his recent reading of Homer's Odyssey. Sherlock frowned, unable to comprehend why that had come to mind. He had deleted the memory years ago, or thought he had. With a small shake of his head, Sherlock dismissed the thought, deciding to deal with it another time.

 

Sherlock's bare feet made little sound as he stepped into the living room, eyes darting around like silvery minnows under the glassy surface of a stream. Curtains drawn back, either because daylight was dim or because Mrs Hudson wanted to see the snow, a water ring from a teacup staining the table, probably John's, lamp turned on, definitely dreary day then, a stack of papers, John sitting in his chair, leaning forward, talking to... Molly? Yes. Molly. She looked sad. She was sad. Worried. John was also. Something was wrong.

 

As both sets of eyes lashed out at him with fierce protectiveness, Sherlock knew it was him they were worked up over. Something connected in the back of his mind for a fraction of a second before fading away into infuriating oblivion; just enough left that he knew he felt something, a tease, with no real certainty.

 

John was on his feet before Sherlock could process it, posture tall and commanding and something in his eyes was angry, angry at Sherlock? No. Well, yes, there was anger, but no blame.

 

Molly made no sudden movement, but she stiffened in her seat, and her eyes flashed with surprise and concern, and for the briefest moment, fear, ending on a steadying note of relief. Sherlock's body didn't move, brain trying, and failing, to make sense of the situation.

 

"You're awake," was all John said, and although his voice seemed flat, there were bittersweet undertones of honest concern and solace borne from the knowledge that Sherlock really was okay. Sherlock saw the anger fade from his face, and he looked tired, and Sherlock knew John cared. If he wasn't so disoriented, Sherlock may have smiled at his friend, a real smile.

 

Instead, Sherlock frowned. "Yes," he said, eyebrows furrowed down in confusion. He'd thought that obvious enough, and for once, could not guess at John's actual reason for saying that.

 

"Are you alright?" John's voice was thick with intensity, and it was almost overwhelming. His eyes were bright as he studied Sherlock's face, and they quickly scanned the rest of Sherlock, as if searching for some reason for Sherlock not to be fine. Of course, Sherlock felt absolutely nothing wrong except a powerful uncertainty clouding his mind, like he had missed the important parts of his life recently.

 

"Of course," he replied, beginning to feel irritated by his friend's stubborn persistence. He had just gotten up to grab a cup of tea, not to partake in an interrogation.

 

John and Molly looked at each other with the same, horrified expression on their faces, and Sherlock felt a prickle of fear as he recognized the meaning: something had happened to Sherlock, and _Sherlock didn't know._

 

"What's wrong?" Sherlock demanded, taking an urgent step toward John, who did not move. When a second passed and John did not reply, Sherlock turned to Molly swiftly, like a cat cornering a smaller creature. "What's wrong with me?"

 

Molly swallowed slowly, as if collecting her thoughts. She had a nervous look to her, intimidated both by Sherlock's uncomfortably imposing nearness, and by the weight of what she was avoiding saying.

 

Sherlock let out a growl, spinning around angrily and sending the edges of his dressing gown spinning. Molly flinched sharply. John grabbed Sherlock's shoulder and turned him to face himself.

 

"You've been minimally conscious for the last three days, Sherlock. You've been in your bed, thrashing and groaning and when I asked if you were in pain you said yes," John's voice was fast and scared. "You said yes." His eyes met Sherlock's, and there was an empathetic hurt in them.

 

Sherlock stood still for a moment, trying to process what had happened, but only understanding the fear and tenderness of John, and how his eyes seemed to plead for Sherlock to be okay, to not leave him again, and Sherlock couldn't speak.

 

John looked away, a bit too quickly, and his demeanor shifted to the disconnected, professional manner of the doctor he was.

 

"We were on a case. It's not important now. You fell." John's voice sounded funny and emotional at the last word, although he hid it well, and continued speaking so bravely and matter of factly that it seemed as though the waver had never existed. "I watched you. You hit the ground, and I thought maybe you were alright. You didn't get up, and I realized that you hit you head. We couldn't do much but wait it out, but the fact that you were responsive was a positive sign, and we figured you'd make a full recovery."

 

Sherlock suspected some underlying doubt in John's confident words, and he knew that both John and Molly had been terrified that he wouldn't make a full recovery.

 

While Sherlock was contemplating a reply, Molly smiled at him sympathetically. She glanced to his side for a second, and then back to his face. Her face was kind, and almost motherly. "How's your arm feeling?" She asked, and Sherlock blinked.

 

"Hmm?" He looked at her questioningly, eyebrows up and lips pressed together. He glanced down and saw that his right arm was covered in a simple white cast, and that it must have broken when he fell. The cast looked somehow odd, like it was too clean, to precise. Sherlock frowned internally, not sure why he was having a sudden distaste for modern medicine.

 

"Oh right. My arm. It's better, much better," he said swiftly, giving Molly a vague nod and a charming smile. His arm was aching, now that he had become aware of it.

 

When Molly had left, a bit reluctantly and only after making absolute sure there was nothing she could do immediately to help Sherlock, Sherlock wanted to go back to sleep, feeling uncharacteristically weary, but John stopped him. He wanted to ask a few more questions, and Sherlock agreed. He felt like it had been a long time since he had talked to his friend, so John made them both tea and they moved their chairs and sat together by the fireplace.

 

Sherlock slowly sipped at his tea. John hadn't had any of his at all, and he was busy swirling it around in his cup. After the silence stretched long enough to be a bit uncomfortable, John looked at Sherlock.

 

"You were dreaming, while you were unconscious. You kept screaming and fidgeting, like you were being tortured, or at least like you were in a lot of pain. More pain than a broken arm and a concussion would cause," John said quietly, a soft, scared question in his eyes. "Do you know what you were dreaming about? Do you remember? Who was hurting you?"

 

Sherlock took a long moment to think about it, but he couldn't remember. He felt as though he should remember, but he kept getting stuck thinking about John's word choice. Who was hurting you. A person? Sherlock's head was beginning to hurt, and nothing made much sense. Most of anything that happened before he woke up that morning was either nonexistent or hovering just out of Sherlock's mental grasp.

 

"Sorry. I have no idea," he admitted, perplexed.

 

John still looked apprehensive. He opened his mouth, and hesitated. With more patience than he typically possessed, Sherlock waited for John to speak. "Was I in your dreams, at all?" He asked finally, and Sherlock felt a flicker of amusement. Of all the questions he expected John to ask, that was not one he readily thought of.

 

"I... don't think so, no," Sherlock told him, wondering how he was so sure if he couldn't remember anything about his dreams, but somehow, he knew they weren't about John. "Why?"

 

John's lips twitched a bit, and he looked away from Sherlock for a tiny moment. When he looked back, he seemed almost sad. "Just wondering," he said, taking a sip of his tea.

 

Sherlock looked at him for a moment, while John pretended he didn't notice, and Sherlock began to smile. John was confused by that, and his cheeks were a bit pink because he didn't know what his friend was smiling at and whether or not he should be uncomfortable.

 

 

When Sherlock woke, he was still in his chair, but there was a thick blanket covering him. John was gone, probably back to his own room, although Sherlock suspected he was the one who had brought the blanket.

 

Sherlock didn't know what time he had fallen asleep. He remembered talking to John, and laughing, but hadn't realized he had been asleep until he woke up. He still felt more confused than he should, like he didn't have the full story, but physically, apart from a stiff neck, he felt better than he had in a while.

 

He stood and stretched luxuriously, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. He stumbled into the kitchen and, with a left-handed awkwardness, managed to make himself some tea.

 

About the time he was taking his last swallow, John strode into the room. He looked Sherlock up and down and nodded a bit to himself.

 

"You look good," he commented, getting out his own cup.

 

"I feel good," Sherlock returned as he unceremoniously dumped his cup into the sink. It clattered, and John checked to make sure it hadn't broken.

 

"Good enough to go out somewhere?" John stopped what he was doing and looked at Sherlock.

 

"Oh?" said Sherlock, giving John a surprised, quizzical look, having half expected John to make him stay inside and rest up. But Sherlock was already feeling restless, and almost anywhere seemed more inviting than being cooped up in the flat all day. "Anywhere you had in mind?"

 

John shrugged a bit and shook his head mildly. "Not in particular. Just thought you might like to get out for a spell. I don't think Lestrade has any low impact cases for us, so we might just be walking around, but it's better than sitting here watching crap telly, eh?" John grinned, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock.

 

Sherlock had to agree. He was craving intellectual stimulation, which was not something walking provided, but crap telly had a brain numbing effect that was worse by far. Without a word, Sherlock stood and with his usual flair, headed towards the door.

 


End file.
